HOSTEL

Temporary Stay: come as you are 🛎

Intro.

Places and spaces. Faces we encounter and preserve in our memory for the rest of our lives. Moments we learn from and cherish. I was young, with one foot barely in my twenties. Far away from my birthright home and even further away from a place I wanted to get to in my life.

In a way, I didn’t need to look for it, this work opportunity found me. My roommate, at that time, heard from his friend, who in turn had heard from her sister, who was dating a guy that had just received a position at a company that was short-staffed; they were about to set up a lodging for the summer and needed a few more workers, to star as soon as possible — preferably that spoke multiple languages. I was in a phase of jumping from one odd job to another — surviving in the city — and decided to give it a try and see it through.

The property operated as a hostel only in the summer, the rest of the year it served as a dormitory for students of the close-by university. All the students had already moved out and we were getting the space ready for the big opening: re-arranging rooms, moving beds, buying stationery for the office, outlining shifts.

The place nonchalantly welcomed us with its suffocating emptiness, it felt as if we had to share the space with ghosts — we were the only living in this large building. Summer was around the corner but the structure preserved the cold of early spring days, evoking a notion of unease.

At first glance, building appeared to carry a distinctly grim shadow. Greyness of its silhouette was gnawing at the brightness of my facial expression. Brutalism of the exterior made the premises appear more as a soviet headquarters than a boarding house, there was little to nothing contemporary about it. Inside, slender long corridors, covered in worn out yellow paint, provided a sense of stagnation, dread of not being able to reach your destination.

Several nights of physical labor, and a few more of strategizing, and before you knew it, the hostel was up and running — nonstop process of guests coming in and out had commenced.

Despite the place being full of people like an ant farm, it usually felt desolate and lonesome, with its big windows overlooking the fading colors of the day, dissolving desires forgotten by the inhabitants.

Seeing a new face every 10min and having to strike a conversation, taking on a role of a broken record, is not someone deemed an introvert would willingly choose to do; yet the ability to become a new person was intriguing: experimenting daily with my origin story in front of a new audience member, who never seemed to get tired of asking questions: “Where are you from? How long ago did you move here? Which tourist attraction should I visit? Which restaurant should I go to for dinner?”

It took some time but I got used to it and managed to find some allure in the place’s quirkiness, developing a feeling of nostalgia as the months passed. Being there gave me a chance to relive the experience of summer camp I’d never had. All patrons and staff belonged to the same age group, young adults with little experience of grown-up world, that is filled with depression, stress and mainly responsibilities. Majority of my co-workers were from well-off families and this was their first job experience.

In the end, closing date was the only thing guaranteed to us, as we knew what we’d signed up for. The summer was coming to an end, it wouldn’t have stood the test of time — as there is an end to every movie — but it was nice while it lasted. A fleeting memory, a rollercoaster ride, a fling (short and sweet), collection of snapshots engrained in my subconscious, a highlight reel of unforgettable episodes.

Shoes.

Romance was not something you can simply leave out of the hostel life. She was a new guest that morning. I spotted her right away, and had to volunteer myself to be the one to check her in, escort her to the room and explain the rules, as a true gentleman. She was a slim girl, but very endowed in the chest area — captivating physique that is impossible not to notice. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her rounded nipples were slightly poking out from under the tank top. It was helpless trying to stop imagination from running wild: eyes removing articles of clothing one by one, picturing what lies underneath, every curve and crevice, shape and shade of the most intimate parts.

Small conversation turned into flirting. Had to remark how cute her lisp was. Professional turned personal.

The next day we went to get groceries together and made plans to go exploring downtown at night. She was late, as a self-respecting lady would, but surprising part was that she did not show up by herself. She brought a friend, another girl who was staying at the hostel, that was at least 10 years older than us and barely spoke any English. Huge red flag for the first date. Needless to say there was no romance, and the night ended up being a case of trying to force uninteresting chat and never-ending aimless walking.

We ran into each other a couple days later in the hallway.

I said: “We should repeat our night out, but this time with no extra company. How about tomorrow night?”

“Yes, we should, but why? You did not like her?” she replied, referring to our third wheel”

My response was rather hostile: “I just want it to be the two of us, so we could have some privacy. Quality over quantity”

“I was just tired the other night, and was not in the mood, and I never judge a person based on one conversation. Also I still don’t understand why it needs to be just the two of us, the more friends the merrier”, she proclaimed sternly.

“I guess I was aiming for a different angle in our relationship.”

“You’ve read the situation all wrong, I have a boyfriend back home”, she stated putting the last nail in my coffin.

Here I was, finding myself opening up and falling for the girl who was simply just bored and was looking for a company to spend time with and nothing more. The conversation and any prospects for romance were both over, we did not speak since then.

A week later I ended up in her room, sadly not by being invited in by the miss “friendship” herself, but by sheer “luck” of having to check out something. I was working there after all, please don’t you forget. She actually changed rooms since our last interaction, and her black and white shoes gave it all away. Sudden temptation took over me and gave a rise to contradictory feelings. I was enticed to indulge in a certain act you might not want to admit even to your close friends, something a person would keep personal. Right away I was envisioning her walking in on me, catching me red-handed in this devious act, how ashamed and embarrassed I would be, how disgusted she would feel about me. It seemed gross and romantic at the same time.

I did not do it, sniffing her shoes, inhaling the aroma of her soles, picturing her soaking in sweat after an outdoor workout on a hot summer day. But my imagination aided me in experiencing it.

Money bag.

Privacy in a hostel is similar to a 10hr night sleep — seductive, yet unattainable.

Sneaking into an empty room in search of the station for a night’s rest after another 12 or 18hr shift was nothing out of the ordinary during those days. Trying to fall asleep at the dawn and being woken up only 3hrs later by my co-workers, checking on rooms, since the one I was occupying was listed as vacant in the hostel log. I was not the only staff member employing this practice.

There was a bag, a leather utility pouch in royal blue color, size of a woman’s clutch, where a manager would keep deposits from all residents of the hostel, money returned upon successful stay and check out. Protected only by a zipper, not the safest place to keep the cash, if I may comment. For safety purposes, a manager would usually take the bag with them at the end of the work day.

She was older than the rest of the team and would always mix up her proverbs: something like, “Two heads are better than none”. She did not leave too far from the hostel and would rarely spend the night at the workplace.

One morning chance led me to inspecting the room, and getting it ready for check-in, where she stayed the night before. To my surprise I discovered that very bag, abandoned on the chair by the desk, as a plush toy waiting for the owner to return and resume playing with it. I calmly approached the security pouch, it was cute and chubby, begging for it to be opened. After swiftly unzipping it, my decision was to count its contents. Different ideas raced through my mind.

Should I keep all of it, bag included? Should I just tell my coworkers: “Hey, look what I found”? Or should I take out an insignificant sum, and as a good samaritan return the bag to its rightful owner? — as I knew, considering how everything was operated in our hostel, no-one is keeping tabs on what specific amount should be inside of it.

Bag in hand, flipping through bills, attempting to choose my path, I did not have time or opportunity to make up my mind, as this meticulous process was interrupted by my co-worker that opened the door. She was just doing her job and the same task led her to this room. She was as surprised to see me with a bag and money in hand as I was to see the awkwardness of this whole situation. I had to move fast and put on the act of me being the hero who had located the bag and wanted to do the count and make sure that all money was still there. I told her that I’m going straight to the office to return it where it belongs. She did not know what to say and just agreed with me, as I marched out of that room.

What would’ve happened if she never opened the door and interrupted me? Which decision number my idea die would fall on? Answer remains unquestioned. We never spoke of or mentioned that instance to each other, as it would be a pain to relive the embarrassment. She probably wished she’d gotten to the bag first, or if I’d asked to split it 50/50. We both did not have a nerve.

Early visitor.

My goal was simple, as a person who tries to make ends meet, to get as many work hours as possible and group them all together, which resulted in shifts being very sporadic and hectic. Typical grave shift hours were 11pm to 7am, and there would be only one person left at the reception after 2am to welcome the sunrise.

Despite having the internet at your fingertip, with all entertainment you can ask for, at times I imagined myself to be in charge of a lighthouse, being isolated during wee hours with no real intention or goal, just waiting for something to happen, being a sole beacon for late night travelers. That must be how overnight security guards feel, their job is to make sure nothing happens on the premises, but it seems that a little bit of disruption might be exactly what they crave for, a dose of an eerie excitement for a story to tell later.

The later it gets in the day you start getting a sense of how many people will be late night check-ins, and luck is on your side if you only get just a few. Different people had different approaches to grave shift, but mine, once everyone was out of reception, was to lock the door and try to get some sleep, which sometimes was disturbed by forgetfulness, sloppiness or carelessness of a patron, instead of a guest arrival.

A girl came knocking on the door around 5am, she was out partying and lost her key, could not get into her room, and had to seek assistance from door wizards, the reception itself. Heels in hand, with a tired look on her face she still preserved her natural allure, beauty no makeup can ever conceal. Red dress tightly wrapping her body in a fashion of the most desired birthday present, with Olympian thighs peeking from under it. Pretty tan toes coquettishly burrowed in the coldness of the early morning carpet, she shyly asked for help with unlocking the door, in a trembling voice that had a hint of embarrassment. Walk of shame could be shameful enough without asking for someone’s assistance in taking the last few steps.

We took the elevator to her floor and walked down the hallway towards her door. At the door I was overtaken by a strange sensation, it reminded me of the feeling you get when it’s the end of the night and you walk your date to her door with the uneasiness of not knowing what to expect, if you are going to receive that first kiss or not. A guy would spend the whole date planning and strategizing for the best time to kiss a girl only to leave it to the very last second; while sometimes a girl would be thinking the whole time about when this guy will muster his courage to take a first step and finally seal the deal, patiently waiting and waiting until she is no longer in the mood and does not even want to kiss the guy goodbye, as she is simply over that whole ordeal.

Taking a first step is never easy, but decisiveness does bring fruits of labor, in the form of two ripe fruits sharing their lovely extract, chemistry of a human nature, two lovers intertwined in the flow of time while the whole world is frozen, waiting for them to get their feel and cease relishing the moment.

This time it was all in my head, while I was just woken up from another attempt to catch some sleep and was far removed from romantic mood; while she possibly shared a few of those kisses already that night and was past the quota.

The door was unlocked. “Thanks for your help,” she whispered, and retired to her room. I nodded in approval. Maybe I should have started a conversation, gotten to know her, and tried my chances in getting that kiss one day; but it was not the right time then, it was 5am after all, and the right time was never found.

Passed out.

It was another night shift, nothing special: couple early morning check-ins.

I’d finally fallen asleep around 4am, but loud banging on the reception door around 6am brought me back from the dream world. Half asleep I opened the door to a concern displayed on a girl’s face; standing before my very half-open eyes. The information she delivered crashed into my brain as a big wave knocking a surfer off the board.

“A GIRL PASSED OUT IN THE WOMEN’S BATHROOM!” was the statement that I had to process and react to. Urgency of the message helped me fully abandon the lingerings of slumber and be ready to act.

“Lead me!” I replied.

It was the first time something extraordinary happened during my night shift, and all I could do in the moment was to offer my help. We went to the bathroom, there were couple more females gathered around, drawn in by commotion.

There she was, the star of the show, laying as a lifeless lamb on cold bathroom tiles. You never realize how hard it is to carry a motionless body until you do, would not recommend. One of many reasons why it’s not easy to get away with murder.

Everyone sees you as a hero, Hercules who descended from Mount Olympus to save the day, resolve the situation, so I attempted to act the part, and tried to pick up the body off the floor by myself, but quickly realized that instead of trying to act cool I should request some help. In a collaborative effort with the help of “messenger-girl” we managed to lift “unconscious-girl” off the ground and carry her to a couch in the lounge area. I checked her pulse, she was breathing and at that point became slightly receptive, she was not saying anything yet but was reacting.

I decided not to call an ambulance, give it some time and play it by ear. Told the ladies to stay put and went up to the office to grab a bottle of water for “slightly-conscious-now-girl”. When I came back down she was already talking, said she was ok and just needed some time to relax. She’d spent all night drinking and was dehydrated; in an attempt to get ready in the morning got light headed and passed out in the bathroom. Luckily, she did not get injured from a fall, no blood was spilled.

People tend to shy away from dealing with problems that fall into their lap, we either prefer to ignore them and keep it moving, or try passing them on to someone else to deal with. Like a burden that the girl who fainted put on the girl who discovered her there on the floor, and then “discoverer-girl” went looking for help and put that burden on me, in my mind I tried to find another person to put this burden on, but it was too early and none of my colleagues were around, by chance, the chain of burden placement ended.

I saw “fully-conscious-now-girl” a day later in the lobby, asked how she was feeling and told her to always stay hydrated. She smirked with a hint of shame and said, “Doing good now, thanks doc”.

They say “many hands make light work”, and that time it took only two people to provide assistance, aid the damsel in distress. But in this city everybody tries to treat it in the following fashion: if it’s not your business, you don’t want to get involved.

Sleep.

Working 18hr shift will easily catch up and take a toll on you one way or another — for me it had to do with sleep. My sleep cycle was completely off, I would always have to pencil it in, working around my already random schedule, which ended up in me having to go to sleep at odd hours.

I would stay and spend the night at the hostel if I had to work in the morning, but if I finished late, it was nothing like returning to the comfort of your own bed. Apartment where I used to live was on the opposite side of town and it used to take me about an hour to commute during the day; but my late night shift would finish after midnight and in the wee hours all the trains ran local, which would simply increase my getting-home time by another 30min at the very least. On a train I would constantly try to fight off sleep assaults with little to no success, while constantly drowsing in and out of consciousness, waking up every time the train came to a halt.

First time I experienced sleep paralysis I was more annoyed than afraid. It was pretty close to the textbook definition. I woke up and felt as my eyes were open. It was dark in the room as it was still a few hours until the sunrise. I could not move, could not emit any sound, with a shortness of breath, and I was also feeling a presence in the room, feeling as a shadowy figure was observing me from the darkness of the corner by the room’s entrance. I was not scared, but was experiencing slight uneasiness, as someone broke in, as if there was an intruder of my dream, or reality. After some time had passed, of me being out of control of the situation, a strong gust of wind knocked me into the wall and I woke up again, only to realize I woke up into another dream, I still could not move, and the same process would repeat itself with a few variables. When I finally woke up for good, I could still feel the wind on my body and remnants of the sound it created in my ears.

My annoyance stemmed from the fact that I finally had a chance to fall asleep and rest, but I simply couldn’t. Following the cycle of being in the state between waking up and falling asleep, having to ward off an assailant from the unknown.

Back in the day people used to think of sleep paralysis as an event when evil spirits paid you a visit, “hag was riding you” was an explanation for such phenomenon. In modern day, I just had to do a quick research to find out what it all meant, to become better versed in this occurrence, despite the “realm of dreams” still being a huge mystery to all of us.

I’m glad this never happened to me as a kid, which would have surely traumatized me for life.

Stealing.

The most distinct feature between hotels and hostels is the sense of unity: adapting to each other’s behavioral patterns, closeness of physical proximity as well as shared experiences, camaraderie that is created by pure chance. Despite personal preference of how close you want to be to a stranger, hostels usually room multiple people together and separate the rooms by gender. Ours was no exception, every room had three beds which would normally be occupied by people who never met and did not know each other prior. Hostels help solo travelers find company, a partner for adventures. We rarely had a problem with people complaining about their roommates, as everyone was of the same age group and seemed to get along pretty well.

There was a room with two girls who were traveling together and staying at the hostel for two nights. They resembled each other and could pass for sisters, they were tan with skinny figures, long hair covering the shoulders with bangs, making them look like members of 70s high school rock band. At the check-in they mentioned their reason for the visit was to have fun and party. First night of the stay they were lucky enough to have the whole room to themselves, as the third bed remained vacant.

The next day a third roommate was added to the mix, a girl in her late teens with round naive face, glasses and a bob haircut; she carried herself in a timid manner with a tone of politeness in her speech. She was only staying for one night before her early morning flight.

Later on, the same day a new girl inhabited the room, one of the “sisters” came down to the office seeking assistance.

“We have a problem, can you help us out?” she exclaimed while entering the reception.

“Sure, what’s the problem?” I inquired. That night there was only a shift manager and two receptionists left at the office.

“I just have to show you, can you come to my room, it is an urgent matter!” she said in a hurry.

Leaving another guy behind, the shift manager and I went to the room to scope out the situation.

Suitcase was sprawled on the floor, laying open in the middle of the room with another “sister” bent over in search of something inside, and the shy girl standing in the corner with an “about to burst into tears” look on her face.

“She stole a lot of our stuff!” proclaimed the “sister” that brought us there.

“She did..?!” not knowing what to say I responded with hesitation.

“Yes look at this, this all belongs to us,” pointing at the assortment of random items that were laid out on the floor by the suitcase, ranging from small electronics to various clothing articles. As it turned out, luggage belonged to the girl in the corner, who had just burst into tears, as one of the “sisters” pulled out yet another item from a tightly packed suitcase.

“Sisters” had almost the opposite approach to what had occurred, while the one that stayed back seemed calm and forgiving, but sad and mostly disappointed; the other, that requested our help, was enraged and determined — she was seeking justice, smelling blood.

Crying girl kept apologizing while trying her best to hold back tears, her glasses in one hand, wiping tears with the other sleeve. But more stuff kept coming out, followed by loud sighs of the furious “sister”. It was like a magician’s hat, you never know what might appear next, whether it will be a postcard, souvenir, or a box of Belgian chocolates, no doves this time, luckily. With every new thing being extracted from the bag, the girl’s crying level was increased.

Few sorries later, the shift manager and I decided to step outside, and excused ourselves into the hallway, to discuss the plan of action. The one thing we agreed on right away was the heroic composure we kept without bursting out laughing during interaction in the room, the situation was way too comical and absurd, although serious at the same time.

Shift manager was the only person who came back to work at this hostel for the second term consecutively. She beared the name of a plant, which fit her perfectly, as she was jovial in the sun, but would get too emotional and crumble under pressure when it rained: I caught her crying at the desk once, being too overwhelmed by work, by how unorganized the schedule was and how indifferent were the workers. With body shape of a plus size model and a posh accent to match, she always had an endless amount of sass to give. She took upon the role of being a mom to our team, and it seemed as she genuinely cared about people around her, and would offer a helping hand if someone was in need.

After a quick discussion we settled on a tactic of trying to diffuse the situation with the least amount of drama, as we did not want to make matters worse, but still were unsure on how to treat it in the most professional manner. Upon return to the treacherous room, our announcement was:

“Ok, we will not inform authorities and cops will not be called, as long as you guys don’t want to press charges.”

“It’s ok, we don’t want to escalate it any further, we forgive her,” said the merciful “sister” sticking to her original approach.

“Ok then, in this case we will have to confiscate your passport for the time being,” I addressed the thief of the group, “your check out is marked as an early morning one, so we will put you in a separate solitary room, and you can collect your passport from reception at the time of your departure.”

The girl in a wrong had nothing else to do but agree to our reasonable terms.

All the stolen contents were returned to their rightful owners, passport was confiscated and I tried my best to impersonate disappointment while taking it, but truthfully I was indifferent, everything that had happened did not do anything but provide a bit of entertainment for me that night; and maybe also got me curious, curious about why it had happened in the first place. What was the motivation behind it? Was it jealousy on the young girl’s part that caused this behavior? Because it was clearly not out of necessity, based on how random stolen things were. Was it teenage angst towards prettier looking girls who were a few years older? Was it a form of rebellion? Like a bored housewife, who stays home all day without having any hobbies or knowing what to do, who resorts to stealing from clothing or jewelry stores, not because of a need, just to add some adrenaline to mundane daily routine, to create a thrill.

I was the lucky one to be doing the overnight shift after that debacle with the girls. The wrongdoer came to check out, after somebody else had already woken me up. She returned the key and I handed the passport back to her. I thought that I should say something, address what happened earlier, give a closing statement, or give a word of advice, but I could not come up with anything. And no emotion was expressed on my face either, I abstained from pretending to be mad.

It was a terribly executed petty crime: too messy, too impulse driven. In return, we had to assume the role of authority, to play out “good cop, bad cop” scenario — good cop, good cop in our case; to be the judge and the jury.

I could never be a cop, the line between justice and breaking the law is too blurry, and neither contacts or magnifying glass could help me see it clear, clear as day, but for me the sun has set and the street is dark. They say, don’t bring your work home, but it’s hard to do when you spend half of your week’s sleep time at the workplace, your sleep belongs to work halfway. It’s hard to pass the judgement when it’s biased and morphed by experiences and time. What happens in the dark does not always come to light — something you realize along the way. Don’t expect people to treat you the same way you treat them, treat them the way you WANT TO BE TREATED.

She took her passport in haste and silently left me behind, trying to navigate my moral compass, in search of the answers to questions I was pondering over.

Elevator.

Patience is a virtue, and also something I seldomly resort to. I operate at a fast pace and can’t waste time on trivial stuff. Naturally, when I enter the elevator, if no-ones around, “close door” button is being pressed repeatedly and with vigor, until the door is fully closed. This time was no different, until a voice of a girl running towards the elevator called out to hold the door and disrupted my process.

“Thanks,” she said, entering and taking the opposite corner. Long black hair assembled in a ponytail, clad in tight-fitting sportswear, it looked as she was returning from a jog at the park. Her big hazel eyes had an unusual warmth to them and a gleam of relentlessness.

Several seconds into the ride, the elevator unexpectedly jolted and ceased its movement. Elevators were old, power would go out at least once a week, it would normally take a minute or two and the elevator will resume its course. This time was different — lights went out too. She immediately gasped, and grasped my hand in shock.

“Sorry,” she said letting go of my hand, “I just don’t like being in confined spaces. What should we do?”

And confined space it was, steel coffin box, not too small, but not big either, enough room to fit about six people of medium build — packed like sardines.

“It’s ok,” I replied, “don’t worry, it happens from time to time, just need to give it a minute; I actually work here.”

That did not seem to fully calm her down, but she did breath a sigh of relief. I couldn’t see things clearly as our only source of illumination was a skinny sliver of light seeping through the opening where elevator doors met. I thought I should just continue talking to ease up her nerves, and maybe mine too, as I was starting to think to myself something here was not right, with the lights being off.

“How long have you been staying here, I don’t think I’ve seen you before?”

“I just got here not too long ago, flew red-eye and checked in earlier.”

“What brings you here?” I inquired.

“Always wanted to visit this city, finally made up my mind to do so, will be staying here for a few days.”

“How you enjoying it here so far, besides this elevator fiasco?”

It seemed to be a wrong question to ask as her demeanor suddenly changed and she started sobbing.

Surprised by the odd reaction, I asked, “what’s wrong?” immediately.

She replied, “it seems that everything has been going wrong lately, as I said I just got here last night and earlier today received a call from back home, my step dad had a kidney failure and was admitted to a hospital..”

“I’m sorry to hear that”

“..and now here I am stuck in the elevator, losing my shit, crying in front of a stranger.”

“Well, if it makes it any better, I can’t even see you crying,” my eyes started adjusting to the darkness, but not enough to spot something as detailed as tears of despair dripping down her plump cheeks.

She continued: “I started working when I was 16, with school and part time jobs combined I barely had any time for myself, hardly being able to keep up any social life, that’s not what a typical teenager does. I felt super burnt out last year and decided to finally take a break. So I saved up some money, took a gap year and here I am, ready to embark on a journey, backpacking across Europe.”

This felt peculiar, people tend to speak freely in front of strangers. That’s why you always hear stories about someone pouring their heart out to their next armrest neighbor on a train, stuff people usually keep a secret, and would not even tell their closest friends or family. Most of us prefer to bottle it up and hide it deep inside, until one day you have a chance to just let it all out to someone you will never see again, afflicting them with what weighs heavy on your chest. Stranger encounters, cathartic practice.

She kept on, “And now I’m split between leaving for Europe and leaving everything behind, letting myself live and experience, see the world, as cheesy as that sounds; or returning back home and spending time with my step dad. What do you think I should do?”

“As bad as it might sound, I think you should go to Europe, you have to live for yourself and if you keep refusing yourself joy in life, you won’t get to live it, just be on standby, on a bench waiting for coach to put you in. I’m sure your step dad will understand and want the best for you.” What kind of advice could you expect from a person who recently moved across the world on a whim and left the family behind.

“You might be right, he was very excited for me to be finally traveling,” she replied, wiping tears off her face.

People always asked me for advice as long as I can remember. Not sure how it started, but I was just selected to be the one who holds the wisdom. Even when my own life was in the state of ruin, I never did show it, which might have seemed to the outside world as “this guy has his shit together”. The flip side of it is that you become a monolith, the golden standard, the one to have all the answers, the one who will always listen and help. You can no longer complain or worry your loved ones. Be the one they can always rely on. Hide the sorrow from them and always say “I’m ok, everything’s ok”. I could never tell them anything, couldn’t reveal the truth — it was just too embarrassing and would make the situation worse. One person, I, was enough to worry about myself, there was no need to get them involved too, as it would only bring negative emotions into their lives, and they would be affected by it. Receiving compassion is scary.

“Why is this elevator still not moving!” she yelled out and interrupted my deep dive into a human psyche.

There was no use screaming though, the space was basically sound proof, perfect place for solitary confinement. There were a total of three elevators in the hostel, and when one of them hiccuped, the other two were working, and no-one would even pay any attention to the out-of-service one. I thought to myself, it might be a good time to start taking action, as about 10min had passed since we started this ride, and there was no display of vital signs from the elevator — rebirth of a phoenix was hardly expected here. Pressing emergency and alarm buttons did not help, I did not have my phone on me either.

“Do you have any service on your phone?” I asked her hopefully.

After quickly checking her phone she replied, “no, nothing.”

“Guess we don’t have any other option but to wait..”

Disconnected from the outside world, tucked away in a dark corner.

“Do you believe in God?” she asked out of the blue.

“I was baptized as a kid and grew up with religion inherited from my parents, that was instilled in them by their parents. As I got older my faith faded more and more, that at this point in my life I don’t think I do anymore.”

“But isn’t it sad not to believe in anything?! I like to think that everyone has their purpose and the path has already been laid out for us all, we just need to follow it. Maybe fate is what brought me to this city, brought me to this very hostel, brought us together and made the time stop, gave us a chance to think: challenged my confidence, tested my will to keep on and follow through; and for you to give me advice not to back out now, when I need it.”

“Or it could all just be a sheer coincidence and the result of everything that was leading up to this moment, no master plan behind it, series of random events.”

She fell silent, probably going through various possibilities, of how everything occurred, in her head.

Without warning, silence was interrupted by “Can you give me a hug?” that sheepishly escaped her lips.

So I did, I needed it too, I embraced her: all the warmth, all the sadness, all the indecisiveness. In the darkness like a forgotten monument we stood still, feeling each other’s heartbeat. In that moment it felt as if we were long lost friends reconnecting after years of separation, as we understood each other and breathed in the same rhythm. To my surprise, I was hard. She was short, and my erection was pressing up against the top of her abdomen. She did not pull away, and could definitely feel it as she leaned harder into it. Maybe it was comforting, providing a sense of care for her; the same way as, when you are in the comfort of your home, your hand sometimes might end up on your genitalia, in a totally non-sexual way, just calmly resting there with no purpose at all. Whether it was tightness of physical space we were enclosed in, or emotional intimacy derived from a heart-to-heart we conducted, that got my body all hot and bothered in that moment, allowing sexual tension to bloom.

We stood there in embrace, oblivious to the passage of time, until suddenly lights turned on, elevator made a ding sound, and doors magically opened. There were a couple of people waiting on that floor to get on, unaware of the whole service interruption ordeal.

As we were freeing ourselves from the steel prison, she made a remark, “We should get a coffee sometime!”

“Yeah, we should, we both practically live here, no excuses not to.”

“True, I only have a few days left here, got to make the most of it.”

“Good luck with your trip preparations, hope your stepdad gets better!”

“Thanks,” was her reply as she turned the corner in the hallway.

Fate works in mysterious ways. We did not end up seeing each other again, but I hope she did stick with the plan and traversed Europe in the end.

Outro.

The summer was over, but life continued. Its impatience would never cease or wait for you, running its course despite anyone’s wishes to slow it down or speed it up. Working at the hostel was the easiest and most carefree job I ever had: it forced me out of the social shell with plentiful interactions I willingly, or by chance, was a participant in; assisted me in adding on to my memory portfolio. Afterwards, I moved on to more challenging times and decisions, and if I dare say, as all patrons and staff did as well. Hostel became a distant memory once “real life” kicked in, again. Nevertheless, lessons were learned and conclusions were drawn there.

I hope you enjoyed your stay…

Mikael Kino, 2021